


Talisman

by a_chilleus



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (updating tags as i decide what happens...), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blank Verse, Gen, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Poetry, canon divergence happens post s2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_chilleus/pseuds/a_chilleus
Summary: And every time, the servant boy is there.How strange he looks, in his soft woolen shirtAnd scarf beside the gleaming aegis wornBy Arthur, prince and hero of the land.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was reading the Metamorphoses (Ovid) and this happened.

i

As dawn breaks over Camelot, the light  
Falls gently on the prince's face, the thick  
Drapes closed but for a crack through which soft rays  
Coax open eyes that only lately closed.  
The newly hired servant boy is late.  
The prince is wary to bestow his trust  
Lest words too freely spoken break the dam  
And too much flows too soon — his armour cracked  
And hidden fears invoking scorn and spite.  
He reminds himself before the boy arrives,  
And notices the need to do so, asks  
Himself why _this_ boy makes him _want_ to talk...  
And shakes his head to push the thought away.  
Pendragon crests in softest crimson silk  
Adorn the rough stone walls that make his home,  
And Arthur’s mind is torn between the pride  
The crest inspires — his oath sworn to protect  
The people who have placed their trust in him —  
And guilt, as the protector is kept safe  
By impregnable barricades of rock  
So as to safeguard him from the very  
Dangers from which he tries to shield his flock.  
“Good morning sire!” The manservant arrives,  
And Arthur sighs and glares and plays the role  
Of prince by throwing pillows at his head.

And Arthur was prepared since youth to face  
The horrifying hordes of those who choose  
To meddle with the forces of the dark,  
Who lurk in shadowed corners, would usurp  
His father’s throne — make chaos rule the land.  
He thought he was prepared — thought he’d be safe  
With all the finest knights the realm provided.  
Then danger comes in strangest guise, with eyes  
That flash in various colours, beasts of prey  
That take delight in senseless death and such  
Unconventional shapes as if accrued  
From spiders, scorpions, and lions all;  
And women who speak riddles, dripping bile  
And poisoning the bodies and the minds  
Of men. And Arthur quells his fear; he fights  
The snakes that rise from off the shield of Valiant,  
And stabs the vile Afanc, never flinching  
As every monster falls to his bright sword.  
And every time, the servant boy is there.  
How strange he looks, in his soft woolen shirt  
And scarf beside the gleaming aegis worn  
By Arthur, prince and hero of the land.  
The boy is there. He has no right to be  
Beside the future king, protector of  
The realm — but he is there. He stands  
As bravely as a knight, perhaps more brave  
With not a scrap of metal on his body.  
The foolish boy can’t even hold a sword  
Correctly, let alone _wield_ blades against a foe.  
And yet, it seems the boy’s a talisman —  
Arthur’s aim more sure and steady when he’s near.  
He determines he will think of it no more.

ii

“He saved my life,” the prince insists. “I can't  
Stand by and watch him die.” The king stands firm,  
But Arthur’s mind is already made up.  
Mere duty, nothing more, he says, it’s just  
Repayment of a debt, he’s honour-bound…  
His father’s laws, though hitherto unchecked,  
Are broken now with scarce a second thought.  
The journey, spent in solitude, provides  
Much time for that — for second thoughts, and third —  
But Arthur never doubts his choice. The boy  
Drank poison meant for Uther and his son,  
And lies in the physician’s chambers, weak,  
With pallid skin and sweat upon his brow.  
He seeks the pharmakon, the Mortaeus flower,  
Which has the power both to maim and cure.  
Within the caves of Balor Arthur tests  
His will against both beast and precipice —  
The fragile plant in hand, he struggles up  
The rock face, dark fiends fast upon his heels.  
And yet the talismanic quality  
He’d found in woven scarves of royal red  
Appears in phantom form, to guide him from  
The cavern’s mercilessly deep, dark maw.

And when the prince returns to Camelot,  
He braves his father’s wrath and punishment  
To get the healing flower to the boy.  
Then Merlin, bundled up in blankets, looks  
So frail it makes the prince’s throat constrict  
And words are not forthcoming, so he nods,  
And hastens to his chamber. Here, alone,  
The rosy evening glow draws down his gaze  
Towards the paving flagstones polished by  
A thousand feet of king and knight and serf.  
The helots know his name; he knows not theirs’,  
Excepting few whose families cause strife  
Or offer direct service to the court.  
But Merlin’s name he memorised the day  
They met, and never could say why.. 

iii

One day Uther will die, this Arthur’s known  
Since long before he even learnt to read,  
And, even as an infant, was not spared  
The knowledge of his future obligation.  
To rule the kingdom, keep these people safe  
From all the wickedness that magic brings.  
One day he’ll be alone upon the throne,  
His solemn duty to protect the realm,  
Advisors only able to suggest  
A path, not make the choices that he dreads  
On his behalf. He sits by fire bright  
In the dark forest, knights asleep in tents  
And Merlin — always Merlin — by his side.  
If fireside logs could replace golden thrones…  
His thoughts are interrupted suddenly  
As sparks burn Merlin’s trouser-leg again —  
The servant, half asleep beside the fire,  
Jumps up and vainly bats the dark singed spot,  
And Arthur bites back laughter at the sight. 

They go to seek — it hardly matters what,  
They’ll focus in the morning on their task.  
For now, the forest’s quiet, smelling sweet  
Of moss and petrichor; the only ones  
Awake, beside the prince and Merlin, are  
The owls and the small scurrying creatures  
Beneath the leaves; while making up the fire  
The servant found a hedgehog ‘neath the branches  
And, as children lift up kittens in their hands,  
Forgetting previous rough and rowdy games,  
Eyes wide and lips apart in quiet awe,  
So Merlin gently took the creature up  
And murmured to it as he carried it  
From the campsite away to safer ground.  
The knights would never think to check  
For smaller beings underneath their feet,  
And Arthur’s glad he brought this strange  
Confusing boy along. He notices  
That Merlin’s watching him, head cocked and brow  
Furrowed, and realises he’s lost in thought  
Again. He nods and says they both should sleep,  
And Merlin yawns and soon his eyes are closed  
And breathing slow; and Arthur looks around  
And wakes a knight to take the next turn’s watch.


	2. Chapter 2

iv

A challenge issued by a woman known  
As such once she had proved her skill  
Against the prince leads Arthur on a quest  
To find a seer who will tell him all  
That Uther never did — he never knew  
His mother, wonders if he looks like her,  
If she was fiery as her husband or  
More gentle, if she sang him lullabies  
Or if, like Uther, she’d have raised him tough.  
And maybe somewhere deeper down than he  
Would like to look, he wants to know if she  
Would have been proud of the prince he’s become,  
If she would know the answer to his fears  
Of one day taking on his father’s role,  
And, stumbling, letting all his people down —  
And proving him unworthy of the crown.

He takes the serving boy along, of course;  
He claims he needs a second pair of eyes  
To watch the horses while he meets the knight  
Who bested him and asks her what she knows.  
The truth, of course, is that of all the men  
In Camelot, it’s Merlin who may be  
Entrusted with the order, “leave at night  
And never tell a soul,” and Merlin who  
He wants beside him when he learns — whate’er  
He’s bound to learn; he knows not what he’ll find,  
But fears the worst, and can’t bear to be seen  
By any of the _knights_ in such unease.  
And Merlin’s strange ability to bring  
Him luck, or strength, or skill, or merely just  
The confidence to be at his most noble —  
Well, it would not do to be without it now. 

They reach the sea; it stretches out for miles  
As still and tranquil as a cloudless sky,  
Ethereally quiet, and there they stop,  
Unsure of how to cross from Odin’s land  
To where they’ll meet the lady knight and learn  
Of Arthur’s mother, if he lives to ask  
His questions — for the knight, if that is what  
She is (for Arthur know she fights as well  
As any well-trained man with noble blood  
But has not heard of any precedent  
For kings bestowing knighthoods onto women),  
May yet decide to kill him straight on sight.  
But both his honour and his curiosity  
Demand he find a way to cross the sea;  
Recalling words the woman said to him  
Before she rode away from Camelot  
(Her hair, a waterfall of palest blonde,  
It billowed in the wind just like a cloak,  
As if by nature she was just as much  
A knight as he), of horses knowing how  
To reach her, Arthur stands in confusion,  
And Merlin, too, is at a loss, until  
The horses make their way into the sea  
With both their riders powerless to tell  
Them no. They cross the waters, reach the lair  
Of Morgause, warrior and seer too. 

v

The place is merely ruins of a fort  
Abandoned by its rulers long ago,  
Which now stands tall and stark against the sky.  
The stone is weakened by the moss and vines,  
As ivy snakes along the crumbling walls,  
And yet the place is clearly still in use  
For rites and rituals that Arthur dreads  
To think of, just the sort of horrid fiendish acts  
His father warned him of in childhood.  
There’s something strange about the place, he’s sure  
Of that, and Merlin’s quieter than he’s been  
For days (the prince would joke it’s a relief,  
But levity fades fast upon his tongue);  
The air hangs heavy, and solemnity  
Is bid by forces powerful, unseen.  
He’d call it sacred, if he couldn't hear  
His father’s voice recoiling in his mind  
At such a blasphemous idea. But when  
Morgause arrives, no longer in her armour,  
Instead in strangely regal-looking garb  
For such a grey, forsaken place, the prince  
Is told to place his head upon a block  
As the priestess — he shudders at the word —  
Lifts high her sword and brings it swinging down.  
And Merlin, so uneasy from the start,  
Was at the point of flouting his command  
And rushing to the aid of Arthur’s life  
(But what would an unarmed manservant do?  
The prince despairs of Merlin’s lack of care  
For his own life, though rank does make it law),  
But Arthur, eyes fixed firmly straight ahead  
And heart attempting to make peace with death,  
Is shocked to find the fatal blow a lie —  
It did not come, he’s very much alive,  
And here the seer tells him he has passed  
Some test, and he meets Merlin’s eyes at once  
In silent conversation as Morgause invites  
The prince to meet Ygraine as his reward.

vi

And when he sees his mother, blonde like him,  
And younger than his father, Arthur stops,  
And stares in shock, in awe — she’s _there,_  
She’s — not alive, of course, not flesh and blood,  
But when she pulls him to her chest and hugs  
Him tight, it’s warmer than his father’s stiff  
Embrace. She says his name, he stutters back,  
Just, “Mother,” and then “sorry” — she says no,  
But he insists, “it was my birth that caused  
Your death,” the guilt he’d held since he was small.  
“Do not think that,” Ygraine responds, “You’re not  
To blame: that shame is on your father’s back.”  
She tells how Arthur’s birth could not have been  
Without the aid of ritual and spell,  
How Uther claimed he didn’t know the price  
Would be the sacrifice of his own wife.  
So Ygraine died before her only son  
Learnt to say “mama” or take shaky steps.  
Rage boils in Arthur’s gut — his mother’s blood  
Is on his father’s hands, and Uther too  
Must take the blame for Arthur’s childhood  
Deprived of mother’s love and gentleness.  
He wants to spend forever in this place  
With her, but all too soon she’s fading fast.  
He stares into the dark, wills her to stay,  
But Arthur’s now alone with nothing left  
To warm him but the fury gripping tight  
Around his heart. His mother’s words echo  
Inside his mind and that grip tightens still.  
He rides in silence, Merlin at his side.

When Arthur reaches home he does not stop  
For rest, or food; he keeps his armour on —  
The battle he expected never came  
But now he’s ready for a different fight.  
This one is to the death. His mind’s made up.  
He storms into the hall, his father stares.  
The prince says thus: “This is what fuels your hate  
For those who practice magic. You won’t blame  
Yourself for what you did, so you blame them.”  
The king denies it all. The son is crazed  
With rage and grief — as fires roar into life  
When oil is poured upon the wood, so he’s  
Aflame — he rushes forward, draws his sword,  
Is ready to commit the fatal blow.

The doors swing open — court physician and  
The manservant rush in, but Arthur will not move,  
His sword is pressed against his father’s throat.  
As Uther stares in horror at his son  
But does not move, the servant starts to speak.  
“Stop! What you’re doing will not bring her back,  
You’ll just have lost father and mother both.”  
“You heard what Morgause said — how can you think  
That he deserves to live?” The flash of light  
Against the blade. “The priestess lied!” he cries,  
“She tricked you, those were not your mother’s words.”  
And Arthur’s cut adrift, he flounders now,  
The hand that holds the sword begins to shake.  
“You swear to me—” His father swears it’s true,  
That Merlin speaks aright, and Arthur stills.  
The sword is lowered, energy drains out  
Like water from a cup and he slumps down  
Against the throne, his body slack, head down.  
“I’m sorry, sorry, sorry,” he repeats,  
And Uther murmurs “You are not to blame.”

vii

The doubt gnaws at his gut for months to come,  
Despite the king’s attempt to ease his mind  
By acting as if nothing had occurred,  
And Arthur lies awake at night, replays  
The only words he’s heard in Ygraine’s voice,  
Pretends the conversation stopped before  
The revelation — lies? — of father’s guilt,  
And only lets his mind repeat his name,  
So different coming from his mother’s mouth.  
But Merlin says the woman wasn’t real,  
An image conjured by the high priestess,  
So Arthur wonders if his nightly thoughts  
Betray the memory of the true Ygraine.  
But every time he asks the servant if  
He’s sure the woman wasn’t truly her  
(So desperate to believe that now he knows  
At least her looks and voice), his eyes refuse  
To meet his master’s, and his voice is quiet,  
His jokes become half-hearted, clearly forced.

So Arthur leaves the subject well alone  
After a while, and tries to focus on  
The happier duties of a young crown prince.  
He goes on hunts with other knights and laughs  
As Kay is toppled from his horse after  
A jab at Merlin’s lack of skill (he swears  
Those branches were not there before, but Kay  
Had such a look of shock that in his mirth  
Arthur forgets, and merely thinks the man  
Deserved the fall); and Leon takes a shot  
At catching boar — he’s more successful than  
Sir Montague, who fails to catch a thing  
Except a fox. Then Merlin’s spirits fall,  
And Arthur asks while sitting by the fire  
(When all the knights are busy or asleep)  
What changed; the manservant replies “just that  
The fox cannot be eaten; thus his death  
Was needless.” Arthur has nothing to say  
To this, and Merlin looks away; the prince  
Decides it isn’t worth an argument.


	3. Chapter 3

viii

“No man is worth your tears.” It’s what he’s said  
A hundred times before, to knights who nod,  
And take a breath, and steel themselves again  
To fight the harder for their fallen friends.  
But Merlin’s face grows pale, his eyes get wide,  
He looks away and clenches his jaw hard.  
He tries to grin, but grimaces instead,  
And tries to joke through gritted teeth before  
He hurries from the room, and Arthur hears  
Unsteady breaths come from the corridor.  
He doesn’t want to look, to poke or pry  
At injuries so obviously raw;  
Regardless, wouldn’t know how to begin  
To comfort Merlin in the way he needs.  
He doesn’t even know the sorrow’s cause,  
And fears that, as a potion made in haste  
Without the proper diagnosis made  
Will worsen maladies and sometimes kill,  
Endeavouring to ease the servant’s mind  
Without the proper knowledge of his wound  
Would only make the pain the more acute.

He overhears a conversation, though,  
When Merlin and the court physician thought  
They were alone, that leaves him all the more  
Uncertain where he stands. It seems the boy  
Is lonely, thinks he cannot tell the prince  
Just what is on his mind — and Gaius says  
He’s right, so grave and stern, and Merlin sighs  
And turns to go, so Arthur leaves in haste.  
When Merlin’s late to bring his lunch, he jokes  
But doesn’t reprimand, and when he leaves  
Without reply the prince sits at his desk,  
He rubs his eyes and tries to think without  
The worry that keeps taking over reason.  
But bigger danger lurks in Camelot:  
The Lady Morgana’d been acting strange,  
And Arthur worries enchantment’s to blame.  
She’d been at odds with Uther more and more,  
But now that high priestess — the lady knight  
Who’d conjured Ygraine’s image and her voice —  
Has stolen her away, for reasons still  
Unknown to all in Camelot, and now  
The king is launching search parties abroad.  
A year goes by, and Merlin’s smile returns,  
And life goes on, except for the patrols  
Of men who seek Morgana in the woods  
And each cave and ruin and border town;  
They come back empty-handed every time.  
And Merlin never speaks of the king’s ward,  
Though certainly his face falls at her name  
(And Arthur doesn’t pry, for Merlin’s sake  
And also for his own, his mind too full  
To take another complication yet).  
It’s hard to place what look is on his face,  
Though Arthur knows emotions aren’t his strength;  
Though Merlin’s cheerful sarcasm’s returned  
He isn’t the same boy that Arthur knew.

ix 

The prince stands in the throne room all alone,  
His father gone out riding, knights on guard,  
And Merlin helping Gaius with his tasks.  
The walls are hung with tapestries so rich  
And intricate they draw in eyes and don’t  
Let go, and Arthur’s gaze is drawn along  
The coloured threads so delicately woven  
To the centre of a maze of gold and red.  
These tapestries took years, this Arthur knows,  
But there his knowledge stops; he starts to wish  
That he had learnt a craft or skill beyond  
The bloody art of swordsmanship.  
The tapestries aren’t work for men, of course,  
His father would be horrified to see  
The crown prince with a distaff in his hand  
Before a loom, but Arthur thinks he’d like  
To learn to create beauty with his hands.  
To paint or weave an image, to depict  
His soul in colours carefully chosen;  
That might be easier than finding words  
To tell what heavy doubts weigh on his mind. 

The throne room’s cold, the tapestries the sole  
Source of warm colour, soft against the stone,  
And Arthur wishes, not for the first time,  
That the castle was less fortress and more home.  
His mind drifts back to nights out in the woods,  
The borders of his land a danger physically  
But simultaneously seeming safe —  
The distance between him and Camelot  
Allowing him the space to breathe, to think  
Without his father’s eyes on him. He smiles  
At the memory of his friends — the knights,  
And how they lose their stiffness once they leave  
The bounds of Camelot, they joke more freely  
And play pranks on one another, and on Merlin —  
The servant would exaggerate his scorn  
At the rough games and childish jokes, and when  
The games were over, and the knights asleep,  
They’d warm their hands above the embers of  
The dying fire, and Arthur would pretend  
Not to be watching the flickering light  
That played across the servant’s tiredness-softened  
Face.


	4. Chapter 4

x

The memory of Uther, good as dead,  
The day the priestess stormed the castle grounds  
With deadly soldiers, skeletal, with spells   
That overcame the body with fatigue —  
The prince shudders to think what might have been;  
The memory steals over him each night  
Of Morgana’s long absence from their home.  
He wakes from nightmares, overcome with fear,  
The image of that sorceress Morgause  
Tormenting the companion of his youth  
With blade, with manacles, and — worst — with spells.  
What if she’s driven mad? Her body wracked  
With pain, enough to splinter soul from body,  
Reason from mind — he almost hopes she’s dead,  
So horrid are the tortures he envisions.

He confides, at first, in Gaius — tentative,  
His fear allowed to show, just barely, in  
His furious insistence that he’d be  
Damned if he didn’t save her from that witch,  
Morgause — and Gaius bites his lip and sighs  
And doesn’t outright say that hope was lost,  
But after he has left the old man’s room  
Merlin catches up with him and says,  
Voice soft, that he has hope, that he believes  
If anyone could save her, Arthur could.  
And Arthur stops, and can’t reply until   
They’re safely in his chamber, Merlin locks  
The door after a single glance at Arthur’s face,  
Which, he knows, he’s not managed to school  
Into the stoic manner that befits  
A prince, a knight, the person he should be.  
And after he has checked the lock himself,  
And listened for the footsteps of the guards  
— All silent, and he thanks his lucky stars —  
Then finally the dam begins to break,  
And hot tears prick the corners of his eyes.

xi

So Merlin stays with him that night — Arthur  
Admitted to his fear, reluctantly  
Told Merlin of the nightmares that kept him  
Loth to close his eyes, knowing he’d see  
Morgana’s face contorted with misdread  
And the priestess laughing at her distress;  
And Merlin’s face had crumpled — leaning in,  
He’d placed a hand on Arthur’s arm (the prince  
Had flinched, surprised, but Merlin didn’t stop)  
And said, eyes widened with concern, “Arthur,  
I cannot say for sure what state she’s in,   
But I believe we will see her again,  
And I believe in you, in what you’ll choose,  
In what you’ll do for all of Camelot.”  
And Arthur felt… he didn’t quite know what —  
A pull from elsewhere, half a memory  
Of something that could not have happened yet —  
A wiser version of himself imparts  
Advice, but cannot actually be heard —  
His servant’s voice sounds like a distant call  
From far away that he so dearly wants to heed  
But knows not how — it’s just too far to go.  
But something, somewhere, tugs at something deep  
Inside his chest, and silently he vows  
That he will follow it, if he can only see how.

For now, though, Merlin sleeps upon the floor  
(He’d brought his blankets up, and a pillow,  
Thin compared to Arthur’s but he says  
He’s used to it and wouldn’t want to change),  
And says he sleeps lightly enough to wake  
If Arthur’s nightmares visit him again.  
As sleep steals over Arthurs mind he thinks  
He hears a muttered word or two; before  
He has the the time to question it, to ask  
If Merlin said something, he feels a sense  
Of peace come over him, like aches  
Seep out of tired limbs in a hot bath  
After a tournament — like sliding in  
To water, so he feels himself succumb  
To sleep more tranquil than he’s had in months.


End file.
